In Search of the Appropriate Man
by lillianmorgan
Summary: Darla and Drusilla, bereft of Angelus, set off to enjoy the delights of a 19th century Roman evening.


**In Pursuit of the Appropriate Man**

Angelus was off despoiling the local population. No doubt supping on a good and pious Catholic girl (or twenty) but he had left in some disgrace. The whores' blood-wine lining his stomach had been the worst of it and when Darla had forced her position (sometimes whips really were necessary) he had left in the highest form of dudgeon she could recollect. It was a game they played, a push-pull of puissance. Whoever won, enjoyed the spoils of the body. Leaving was like surrender, but Angelus still had a bag of tricks.

And, of course, just to spite her, he had left behind his toy.

The girl had finally stopped her wailing, that had set Darla's nerves clenched and entwined all afternoon and had caused a parody of sound throughout the opulent pensione, for hours not minutes following Angelus' departure. As evening descended, the foolish child seated herself at Darla's knee, quite fatigued, and had fallen into a calm reverie of one bereft of purpose. Darla gripped her chin, lifted it so her eyes were locked to the girl's, and pronounced, "Shall we learn some lessons, then?"

Drusilla dutifully nodded but had to go and answer, "Of course, grandmum. Whatever you say."

A clip across the ear, and a vehement snap of her favourite doll's neck, saw the end of that.

Outside, Rome glittered. Perhaps it was the new-found verve that war-mongering gave to the city, but gentry, peasants, militia and thieves all lined the strada. Courting and laughing and running and eating. And everywhere pulsed a siren song of sanguine delectation.

"Look at all the pretty tin soldiers. Marching in two by two by two by two." Drusilla nodded her head as the troop passed by and weaved her arm through Darla's, gripping on like a nervous schoolgirl. Darla slowed their steps to appreciate the men. Perhaps…but maybe too gristly. Soldiers were often underfed to keep them mean.

"Too many," she decided. "And besides those muskets they use can cause horrible wounds. I would hate for this satin dress to bear the brunt of your miscalculation. No. Let us find something … better."

She pulled Drusilla across the Ponti Palatino, watching the Fiume Tevere surge beneath their feet, until they had the Colosseum in sight. "Let us hunt in style, my dear girl."

It was not long, as they wended their way around the columns of the outer wall, crackling fire-burning lamps lighting their steps, that they heard what Darla was intent on finding. Voices with English accents.

"I say, Mr Aitken. Don't you find it just as marvellous as when we visited in the morning? Look how the light casts an eerie glow around the structure. Just marvellous. And can't you see those Roman chaps riding round in their chariots, whipping their horses into a frenzy? My, my. Imagine the spectacle."

"Quite, Mr Newbury. I'm glad to see you have been paying close attention to your books."

A younger gentleman was strolling around, hands in his pockets, dreaming amidst the ruins. He was well-dressed, attired in an immaculately tailored suit in the Parisian fashion, and to his left stood another, older man, dressed more conservatively. To their far left, leaning against a pillar, was the valet, a stack of books at his feet.

"Good evening Madam. Miss," greeted the man addressed by the other as Aitken.

Mr Newbury whirled around on his feet to see what had caught his tutor's eye.

"Good evening, gentlemen," returned Darla. "How happy we are to find two _English_ gentlemen abroad. We were beset by thieves, and our escort, my husband, has given chase to them. He is a gallant man, but has sadly left we two damsels in distress."

"Good Lord, Madam, what a horror! Pray, stay yourselves with us. I am Mr Newbury, of Bristol, and this is my tutor and friend, Mr Aitken, also of Bristol." The young man stepped toward Darla and offered her his arm, leading her and Drusilla further into the covered ruins.

"Thank you very much. And how pleased I am to make your acquaintance, sirs. I am Mrs Darla Aurelius, and this is my niece, Drusilla." She tilted her head in introduction to the two of them, a delicate smile illuminating her face.

"Won't stand for that, no, no," appealed Drusilla.

"My niece is of a tender constitution. I fear, she has been rather overwhelmed by the evening's events."

"Poor girl," tutted the younger man, his large eyes turning to Drusilla in compassion.

"Quite," agreed his tutor, his voice adopting a cool non-committed register.

They passed the next few moments in polite conversation, exchanging pleasantries about the weather and life back in England.

"Tell me, Mr Newbury, what are you doing in Rome?" inquired Darla.

Mr Newbury grabbed hold of his lapels and puffed out his chest. "Truth be told, Mrs Aurelius, I am seeking inspiration."

"Inspiration?" she echoed, a chortle barely strangled in her throat.

"Why yes. Young men, such as myself, make their Grand Tour for many reasons. But mine is for beauty. I wished to be inspired by the classics."

"Are you an artist, Mr Newbury?" inquired Darla.

"Well, an aspiring one, Mrs Aurelius, if humility bears me through."

"I am sure you need no humility, Mr Newbury. I am quite sure your talent shines. From where do you seek inspiration?"

"From the buildings, madam. They breathe life." He extended his arms, and, as if to impress his point with his body, took a large breath in and expelled it very noisily out.

"They speak as well," added Drusilla.

"They do?" asked Mr Newbury, barely keeping the eagerness from his voice.

"Oh yes, sir," she replied, nodding her head. She walked toward a pillar and placed her ear next to it. "Whisper and scream the blood of martyrs. Glorious death and destruction. But the voices can't be tamed. They call and call again. No matter how many lashings they receive for being naughty."

"My niece has an exuberant imagination," rejoined Darla.

"But I know the truth … Auntie."

"Are you bored, my sweet?" continued Darla, very amicably. There was pleasure to be had from the hunt, and Drusilla's whimsy would not spoil tonight's revels.

"Yes," Drusilla sighed. She leaned against the pillar once more and closed her eyes.

"Shall we play some games, then?"

"Oh yes! Oh yes!" cried Drusilla, stepping forward and clapping her hands.

"Tell me, Mr Aitken," demanded Darla, swinging her attention full-glare to the older man. "What do you know about muses?"

"Muses?" he repeated, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Come now, sir, what kind of tutor are you?"

"Mrs Aurelius? I'm not sure where this turn in conversation has taken us –"

"Muses. Nine archaic goddesses, remembered through song and dance. I believe sometimes they are referred to as the Pierides. 'Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns, driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy.'"

"Homer, madam?"

"Indeed, sir. But the devil of it is, sir, that while in modern society a man may have a muse, what does a woman have?" She smiled then, a wide smile encompassing her face, that stole her beauty and spoke of predation.

"That's just so, Mrs Aurelius, I had never considered that opinion, but I find -" Mr Newbury's words were stopped, and his body stilled in motion and in shock, as Darla's arms darted out and clapped her hands around his face, closing his mouth.

"So that is why I resolve to find my own muse. Drusilla, dear, take note. The blood of a young man is sweeter than that of an older man. And, you will find, that a man of learning and of breeding is the sweetest of the lot. Granted, there are those who bear a passion that can threaten to overwhelm the senses, but a young man on his Grand Tour? Why it's the perfect treat. Their blood is delectable. Tinged with excitement and enthusiasm; alive in your mouth, the moment you ingest. Do hold still, Mr Newbury," she instructed the struggling young man.

"Oh," she observed, watching as Mr Aitken, having more sense than his charge, had attempted to flee from the danger, "catch up to him my dear, and drain him dry. When you return I will let you sup on the remainder of Mr Newbury and you can compare the two."

Drusilla squealed and turned on her feet, her face changing as she flew away in pursuit of the staggering, older man. Mr Newbury's valet, perhaps too loyal, ran at Darla and tried to save his master. She wrapped one arm around Mr Newbury's neck, pinioning him to her body securely, slowly depriving his body of air, and reached out to drive hard into the valet's speeding head and snap it from his body. He twisted in the air, and fell at her feet. She kicked the body of the crumpled valet away and observed, "And the blood of a servant, Mr Newbury? Not worth all the tea in China."

The bones in her face, snapping to attention and bringing forth the demon, resounded through the cavernous ruins, and she thundered into his neck.

When Drusilla returned, blood speckling her dress and lips, Darla, true to her word, offered the limp body of the dying man to her childe.

"Oh yes, grandmum," Drusilla laughed, smacking her lips after the blood was gone, "so much better."

"Was it a good lesson, Drusilla?" inquired Darla, resplendent and satiated now that the blood lust was appeased.

"I enjoyed it very much. But," said Drusilla, taking Darla's arm once more as they strolled back out into the street, "I think I liked him."

"Who, dear?"

"Mr Newbury. The pixies wanted a playmate and I wondered at his soul. It painted a picture of something calling me, but it wasn't the right colours. Too drab. Too dull."

"Yes, he was rather a dull man, wasn't he? But he served his purpose well."

"Not a white knight, after all then," agreed Drusilla. And together they wended their way home, never once needing the attention of a man.

_Finis_


End file.
